Candles used to mean so much more as a child. They weren’t needed for warmth, but rather, wishes. Some wishes were juvenile, while some wishes were just naïve. Promising futures, friends forever, love. Who would have thought my wishes would have been better spent on castles, ponies, even money and men? I’ve wasted too many years and too many wishes just to see them all slip away.
On my ninth birthday, I had nine wishes. A wish for every year, my mother would say. I had a friend who never made it to nine wishes, and my mother didn’t live long enough to hear my tenth. When you’re young occurrences such as unexpected deaths don’t make much sense, and as you get older, they only become more complicated. An innocent death, one of a child, a single mother, or one of someone never really given the chance to live at all, is the most tragic. Not only is such a death unnecessary, it is always undeserved. Someone on the brink of living herself or someone who works so others may live better deserves to live for as long as the beats of her heart will let her. Or possibly him, I’m not sure who it is yet.
These thoughts of failed wishes, of undeserved death, and of the inevitability of it all bring me here, rounding some corner on Rouse Boulevard. The slight rain does not keep me from taking the long route through the town to get to the bus station. This will be my one last journey through it. Even merely walking down the street has become much more difficult, though. Not only is the onset of old age taking its toll on my joints, the shooting pain up and down my left arm has returned. It showed up just a few days after I learned of the death to come. Some days it’s just a dull pain, a relieving distraction. Other days it’s an overwhelming reminder of an impending tragic end. But whose?
I certainly hope it’s not Ronald. I’ve come to enjoy his visits and even look forward to them most days. I left what little I could spare for him in a jar next to a freshly baked loaf of bread. The rest of my money I’ll use for my ticket. Wherever the next one out will take me. I can’t imagine being here long enough to find out whose death it is I saw. Just knowing of the unforgiving fate awaiting someone unsuspecting is a burden even the heaviest heart cannot hold. I’ve spent my life uncovering secrets I wish not to have uncovered, finding answers which would have been better off unknown, and unlocking mysteries which do more harm than good. All this I have received unasked for and not until now has it troubled me so much. An innocent death. Undeserved. Unnecessary. Unasked for.
Coming up to the park, the light shower suddenly turns into a heavy downpour, making it hard to see more than a couple feet in front of me. The single shooting pain seems to have multiplied into several shooting bullets, racing throughout each and every limb of my body. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to take a small break. It’s gotten more difficult to breathe, too. It feels as if a chest as heavy as the one I left in my shop has been placed on top of my lungs. Perhaps if I could just lie down a moment, I could regain my strength and still make it to the station by morning.
The slide offers to me its protection from the rain. The mulch underneath it seems to be in the exact mold that it was when I slept here as a child. And even though I’ve grown significantly since I was nine, I still fit perfectly. I might as well not have grown at all.
Early last week a vision had shown me yet another innocent death. Even after all those I’ve lived through it dared to show me one more. Another life cut short just before it had the chance to improve. No clues as to who it will be. No chance that I can save him. Or her. Most likely someone young, but perhaps they’re older. Maybe someone new to this town, or maybe someone working hard to get out.
My breathing is slowing but becoming easier to control. The shooting pain has become a numbing sensation, making it nearly impossible to move. All I can do is look up at the slide. No longer covered in rust, but new, bright red paint. The talk of the town. No more gum, only the shine that comes with new steel. It’s just as it was years and years ago. Safe. Nine years old. A great time to be alive. It was never my job to change the future, only predict it. Nine wishes, nine dreams, nine friends forever, nine promises kept and nine different ways to be happy. I couldn’t stop it then. I cannot stop it now. If only a person could be nine forever.
Years and years of knowing peoples’ fates. Only those first nine years matter. Nine more breaths. Nine final wishes: Nine open doors for needy visitors. Eight better futures. Seven reassurances. Six smiles from strangers. Five new beginnings. Four forgotten prayers. Three places to call home. Two kept promises. And One last candle finally blown out.
I started visiting Madame Maureen about two weeks ago; I liked the company and I think she did too. In that sense we were a lot alike, both lonely and in desperate need of some comfort. She was alone with her sooth sayings as I am alone with my thoughts; both detrimental to ones health. When we talked, occasionally, we talked about this: Thinking and Divining. I really enjoyed our encounters, but I never got the chance to tell her that. I guess I'm too bitter and introverted to express my feelings. She never knew this about me, because she made me feel contrary to my true colors. Madame Maureen died, I guess she read her last palm--mine. She had been complaining about her breathing for three days and I had noticed the problem for longer. My initial diagnosis was Lower Respiratory Tract Infection, but she said other wise. I laughed at the humor, a soothsayer arguing with an ex-doctor, two people you generally don't argue with. We agreed to disagree. But to strengthen my argument, I proposed an idea for her to read my palm and we see if my fate is true. She initially refused, telling me that it would hurt her, and that fate is a dangerous thing, but I soon convinced her. The next day she was dead. I came by to visit but the police were there instead. They told me she was in the hospital. My heart raced, and my capillaries in my eye increased blood flow. I ran to Beatrice's Suit Store and grabbed the most handsome suit, flowers, shoes, and cologne I could find. I was left empty, not myself, just an unoccupied body with too much cologne, useless flowers, and a dark suit. Maureen just lied there motionless, dead, gone. She told me it would hurt her, I didn't listen, I persisted. That night I lied in my cardboard bed and thought. Her voice echoed in my ears, "Ah your life line is short, I guess your thoughts and sadness are going to get the best of you Ronald." She won the argument, for my fate was fulfilled. I finally thought the last thought and blew out the last candle. See you soon Madame. See you soon.
ReplyDeleteRain Is More Than A Hippie Name
ReplyDeleteSome people run away from the rain. I tend to run towards it. I guess it's for many reasons. First of all, I never wear expensive clothing. Second of all, I never wear expensive shoes. Third of all, sometimes I like to sneak a bar of soap outside in my pocket and than take a shower in the middle of the street. Just because I can. But I didn't sneak a bar of soap out today. I just went out into the rain.
I saw her before she saw me. In fact, I don't think she can see me at all. She is off in her own world, in whatever the hell kind of world those people live in. And by those people I mean fortune tellers, which I group in the same category as goths, supernaturalists, and religious people. I can no longer call her gait a walk. She is nothing less than staggering. Staggering through the park.
The rain pours down my face. I don't know why I'm following her but I am. I guess I have nothing better to do. She collapses under the slide, escaping from the rain. I turn and walk away.
Minutes, maybe hours later, an ambulance sounds. It seems to be coming from the general direction of the daycare center. I don't really think nothing of it. Another injury, perhaps a death, that's all it means. Lost, trapped in this dismal town, I find it hard to care. It's ironic that a town cursed by its people curses its people. It's as ironic as a fortune teller predicting her own death and than dying.
The Kay Jewelers commercial pries its way into my head. I start to get kind of... annoyed. I guess in this town "Every Kiss" will never begin with "E". Maybe it just has to be like that here. Forever.